


Sparks

by Junejuly15



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anger, Angst, Case Fic, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Injuries, Retirement, Sherlock Holmes and Bees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-22 00:02:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/906507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Junejuly15/pseuds/Junejuly15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Sherlock, almost anybody would be a better friend than you.' When the words were out, John immediately regretted them, but there was no turning back now. 'To be honest, I've had enough, Sherlock.' - Will Sherlock manage to placate John or was this one row too many?</p><p>Commissioned by Oneofthoselunatics for the Sherlock Fanfiction Auction - Chapter 5: Ashes</p><p>Now Complete!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here comes my first chapter of oneofthoselunatics' commission for the Sherlock Fanfiction Auction. She was very generous and granted me time to finish my teenlock au So Here We Are first before tackling her commission. Thank you so much, you're a darling! (I will publish the complete prompt once this story is fully told ...)
> 
> Dear oneofthoselunatics, I hope this is worth your patience and I hope you - and everybody else - have fun reading it!  
> I'd be very grateful if you told me what you think of it?  
> Thank you very much  
> JJ

It was a low rumble first, coming from upstairs, hovering undecided somewhere in-between, but it was soon drawing nearer, growing louder when drifting down the stairs like a force of nature, developing into a full-fledged gale by the time it had reached the landing and stormed into the kitchen.

'For _fuck's_ sake, Sherlock! You bloody well did it again! Although I explicitely asked you not to. Although I explained to you why I don't want you to. But you care bugger all! Tell me, is it really too much to ask to leave my medical bag alone? Is it really too much to ask to leave my medals where they are? _In_ the drawer - _beneath_ quite an impressive stack of papers, _in_ a folder marked _persona_ l in fat, black letters? Is it really too much trouble for you to leave my bloody stuff alone?'

John Watson stood right in front of Sherlock Holmes now, his face flushed and contorted by rage, arms akimbo, his whole body one big and accusing exclamation mark. Unconsciously he was making full use of the fact that he was for once towering over Sherlock who was perched on a chair and bending over the kitchen table.

Only when John's tirade had ended and his heavy breathing was the only sound audible, did Sherlock look up from the letter he had been examining for the best part of the last two hours. Traces of chemicals he had used were visible on the smooth surface of the stationery, their pungent smell thickening the air, adding to the fumes emanating from this bundle of a very ill-tempered John Watson towering over him.

'John, you're back,' he drawled and his gaze dropped to the letter again. John, used to being ignored, but extremely unwilling to accept it yet again, cleared his throat.

'Sherlock, you went through my drawer - again - and you took everything out, including my medals, threw it onto the floor, left it there before you rifled through my medical bag to get what you apparently needed to take this letter apart.'

'Quite right, John. Your power of deduction is admirable. I must say, you're in splendid form today.'

Sherlock glanced up at his friend and smiled his little fake smile which usually worked wonders on ordinary people.

'Don't you smile at me like that, Sherlock,' John fumed. 'Save that fake, insincere imitation of a smile for the DCs at the Yard.' John halted, but only to draw breath to help get this heavy and malignant anger off his chest.

' _Jesus_ , if somebody, your insufferable posh brother maybe, had given me a pound for every fake smile, every thoughtless insult, each and every snarky comment or snide remark I have ever received from you, I'd be a stinking rich man by now and had retired to a cosy cottage in Sussex ages ago.'

'No need to exaggerate, John. Your room is merely in a state of temporary disorder. I meant no harm, you know what I'm like.'

Sherlock, completely misjudging the force of the tornado that was building in the kitchen right next to him, did not even bother to look up when he spoke and his voice remained flat and impassive. No need to be affected when the texture of the used ink on this letter was so very compelling, certainly more so than the ordinary, almost weekly, indignant outburst of his longterm flatmate.

'Of course, I _know_ quite well what you're like. I _know_ that you don't feel like other people, I _know_ that you claim to never have learnt to behave like ordinary people. I know that it is not your fault, or so you say.'

Still Sherlock did not look up, still unable to differentiate this outburst from the various others they had lived through.

'But I also know that this is only half of the truth, Sherlock. You know exactly what you are doing, you know that this kind of behaviour hurts me. I have told you hundreds of times before, and I know it registered. But it is _oh so easy_ to go through the world as self-proclaimed sociopath and therefore disregard all the dull, ordinary people because you're oh so fucking special.' John sharply inhaled before he continued in a mocking voice, 'Have you met the famous Sherlock Holmes? Oh, yes, the clever detective who solved all the tricky and brilliant cases of the last fifteen years. He's a bit awkward, but gosh, he is a brilliant man, a proper genius. Who's that little fellow next to him? Oh, that's Dr Watson, his assistant. Ignore him, he's not important, let's concentrate on the amazing Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes.'

By now John's voice had risen in a hissing, angry crescendo, his eyes ablaze, his hands flying and his face flushed.

'Are you quite finished?' Sherlock asked, and he had the grace to focus on John now, carefully putting the remnants of the letter aside. He had eventually realised that this might be about more than just a bit of temporary disorder.

'No, I am _not_! John all but roared. 'How do you think this makes me feel, Sherlock? Eh? What do you think?'

Clearly no answer to this merely rhetorical question was expected from him, so Sherlock remained silent. But John was not finished yet.

'At home, you treat me like some housekeeper minion, good enough to do the laundry or to cook the odd meal for the great genius. Half of the time you let your food go cold anyway, and I'm not even talking about wanting to hear a simple thank you now and then. And when we're out on a case you tend to do everything alone these days. You don't seem to need my opinion or expertise anymore. Come to think of it - When have I last been on a case with you? Was it two or three months?'

'Lestrade asked for me specifically alone on that last ...'

'Spare me your excuses, Sherlock. I've had enough of it, enough of your disregard of my things, enough of your indifference towards my feelings, enough of your not ...' he broke off and inhaled sharply.

'John, why don't you try and relax a bit ... try to be a bit less _grumpy_. No wonder, this woman broke off your engagement last year. What was her name again, Julia or Gillian?'

'Jennifer, Sherlock. Her name was Jennifer and it was me who broke off the engagement because it turned out she had been two-timing me as you bloody well know.'

Sherlock let out something close to an exasperated sigh, 'John, you realise I am working. I really can't process any information regarding your frankly overcomplicated love life right now. Clearly, you can't cope with it alone, so I suggest you'll call Gavin or Mike and meet up for a pint or two or go to one of those horrendous _pub quizzes_.'

'Gavin?'

'Gavin Lestrade, he has been married - twice. And his wife cheated on him, too, turns out he might be a far better agony aunt than me.'

'First, Sherlock. It's Greg, not Gavin ... and second, the devil's brother would be a better agony aunt than you. And - frankly - almost anybody would be a better _friend_ than you.'

When the words were out, John immediately regretted them, but there was no turning back now. 'To be honest, I've had enough, Sherlock.'

Without looking at his flatmate he turned on his heels and left the kitchen. Sherlock registered the soft tapping of his feet on the carpeted stairs, heard the muffled sound of his footsteps on the downstairs lino, the clapping of the door, and then nothing. John was gone.

 

oOo

 

Sherlock's body tensed when he heard the tell-tale noises of John getting ready to come downstairs. He had to ask him now as there really was not much time left. The cab would arrive in half an hour.

It would be a shot in the dark as they had not spoken properly for the last three weeks. Apart from the odd good morning or excuse me they had thoroughly avoided each other's company, had lived next to each other without John taking the slightest bit of interest in him. It turned out that life was dull without their daily bickering and frankly, it frightened Sherlock how much he missed John's often grumpy comments.

Now there was nothing but bleak silence taking a sniggering residence between them and the fear to be left alone, fear that Sherlock had believed overcome, resurfaced, reminding him of those two solitary years spent hunting Moriarty's web down. He felt ignored, mistreated, cast aside, as if somebody had redecorated his whole life in gloomier colours without consulting him first.

But now a new case had come to his attention, and one that might well bring some excitement. It would take them away from Baker Street, away from their routine that, Sherlock had to admit, had gone a tiny bit stale, the excitement and appreciation of the other lost in the fact that they knew each other too well.

They had met twelve years ago, had gone through ups and downs, the harsh aftermath of his faked suicide and his return certainly marking the lowest point, and had lived together for most of those years. Flatmates, they were, friends, they were important for each other, at least that's what Sherlock wanted to believe.

Given, over the years John had had a string of girlfriends, but he had never plunged into a commitment more serious than going on holidays or walking the dog together. The last one, Jennifer, had been different though, the engagement dutifully celebrated, wedding plans well under way, when Sherlock had found out by chance, and not as John had suspected on purpose, that she had been going out with a retired football player at the same time. Ever since then John had been more subdued, almost as if he was holding a grudge, and by God he had been grumpier than ever.

Granted, their friendship had always been marked by rows and arguments, but also by a deep understanding and respect for each other. But after that last row John had withdrawn completely, deprived Sherlock of his presence, had not even wanted to be in the same room with him. It was as disconcerting as it was wrong. So, this case might help, their working together might bring some kind of resolution, one way or the other, as even Sherlock knew that they could not go on like that infinitely. One, or both of them, would break, and Sherlock was aware that this rift would not be mendable.

'John?' he asked when he heard the characteristic soft footsteps on the stairs.

There was a short pause in which John was obviously fighting an internal battle, to either turn on his heels and avoid his flatmate or to answer a seemingly innocuous query. Eventually the footsteps could be heard continuing their way towards the living room where Sherlock was busy packing.

'You're going away?' John asked, his tone held carefully neutral.

'Yes, and you John, are coming with me!' Sherlock brushed past John and smiled at him, trying to inject sincerity into it. He grabbed a book from the shelf and threw it into a large holdall on the coffee table.

'Am I?' John replied and the tone of his voice made it perfectly clear that he would do no such thing, at least not without a decent explanation.

'Interpol asked for me. Somewhere in Germany a British business man has been taken hostage and apparently my reputation has travelled even to that remote spot on the continent.'

Sherlock beamed at John, excitement and pride dancing over his face, making him look much younger and reminding John of the first time they had set off for a case together, the one with the cabbie he had shot in order to save ... John cleared his throat and blinked, trying to focus on the here and now.

'Yes, fine. That's a cracking opportunity for you to show off your intellectual prowess, but I don't see why you would need me. Seems to be a straightforward case - hostage, kidnapper, ransom - that sort of thing. I remember you referring to this type of case as a five barely touching the six. So, no need for me, I'd say and besides, you seemed to be doing perfectly well without me in the last few months, didn't you?'

'Clearly, John. But the officials especially asked for you to come as well.'

He did not say more, did not specify why exactly John Watson had been asked to accompany the great Sherlock Holmes, but John could not deny a sense of excitement and anticipation stir in his disillusioned heart.

'The officials? And who would that be, may I ask? I have no intention of going to a foreign country, summoned by some sinister government or worse non-government forces and get lost somewhere in the hinterland, and besides I don't speak German at all ...'

'I do!' Sherlock interrupted him.

'Of course, you do!' John mumbled, his tone the verbal equivalent of an exasperated eyeroll.

'Natürlich, John. Es war immer schon mein Anliegen, viele fremde Sprachen zu sprechen.'*

'Sherlock, don't. You're not helping.'

'John, I speak German, as I speak French and Italian, no big deal. I'd suggest you quickly get over your inferiority complex and start packing!'

John closed his eyes for a moment and bit back the first hurting remark that wanted to be spit out. Instead he silently counted back from ten to one before he said. '

No, Sherlock, I won't. If this German case needs my attention, fine. But I want to know why and where and how long and ... and I want to hear from you why _you_ want me to come.'

Sherlock impatiently clicked his tongue, he had hoped to avoid all this sentimental and over-complicating stuff, but he was aware that John had a right to know.

'They asked for you because of your military experience. They think there might be a connection to a soldier from one of your last missions in Afghanistan.'

'That was ages ago. How could there possibly be a connection?' John sounded incredulous and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

Sherlock suppressed a smirk when he read John's body language, textbook really. Time to step it up a notch.

'I think it is absolutely crucial that you come with me.'

'Why exactly?'

'John, it might be a straightforward case, but it's somewhere in Germany. I need a companion, someone to travel with, someone I can talk to. We can get away from Baker Street, from London for a while...'

'Yes, right - okay,' John's face seemed to settle into a permanent pinch and Sherlock knew he had to say more.

'John, I really want you to come with me. Do it for me ... please? - I need you at my side.'

John slowly nodded, listening to the words, tasting them, checking their level of sincerity.

'Fine. I'll think about it. If I'm not down in fifteen minutes with a packed bag, you can leave without me.'

And with that John turned on his heel and left Sherlock standing in their living room, wondering whether his ruse had been successful and Dr John Hamish Watson would indeed accompany him to solve another dull case somewhere in Germany.

 

_* Translation: It has always been important for me to speak many foreign languages_


	2. Gleam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John follows Sherlock to Germany where a strange case awaits them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note: I am definitely not a well-versed case-fic writer, so I apologise for any inconsistencies or improbabilities concerning the case in advance. My focus lies on John and Sherlock's relationship ... and I truly hope that works :)

'His name is Johannes Mertens. Does that ring any bells?'

The German Kommissar, Michael Herbst, a stout fair-haired man in his fifties, raised his impressive eyebrows questioningly in the general direction of John Watson. John grabbed the grainy colour photograph handed to him. It showed a soldier in full army gear.

'It's hard to say, it's been years, there have been hundreds of soldiers...' John squinted at the photo when something familiar about the way this man held himself struck him. 'Hang on ... I might have seen him around the camp, yes. He does seem vaguely familiar, although the uniform is not one I recognise,' John shrugged his shoulders. 'Not German as far as I know and definitely not a British one.'

'No, you wouldn't recognise it, would you? As far as we know Mertens is a mercenary now, working for whoever pays the most. I assume this fantasy uniform is a kind of weird reminiscence to his glorious Bundeswehr days. He was a major, but dishonourably discharged ten years ago.'

'Right - Okay,' John dropped his gaze to the photo again and studied the smiling face. It was deeply tanned, lined and not unkind, dominated by a pair of piercing dark blue eyes which built a striking contrast to the full, almost white, hair, cropped close to the skull in a military fashion. This man, Johannes Mertens, was maybe forty, forty-five at the most, and however hard John tried he could not remember more than maybe having seen him around the British camp. Studying this face made John slightly uneasy and he quickly focused his gaze on the Kommissar again.

'How recent is that photo?'

'Fairly recent. About half a year old. Our colleagues in Mali sent it to us. He has been operating there, smuggling, human trafficking.'

'I still don't understand, Mr Herbst.' John placed the photo on the table in front of him, carefully avoiding the array of cutlery the young waitress had placed there minutes ago. 'Why would you need me ... and Mr Holmes?'

Kommissar Herbst looked down on his hands and for the first time since they had met in that rather cosy little restaurant in Stuttgart's city centre, he looked less than absolutely sure of himself. All cockiness, all brazen _here I come_ was gone from his demeanour.

'Well,' he nervously cleared his throat and made a visible effort to face the two Englishmen sitting across from him. 'You, Dr Watson, were in Afgahanistan with Mertens, or at least there at the same time ...'

John could not help but snort when the flimsy connection was openly voiced and his heart sank, how could he be of any use here if that was all that connected him to Mertens?

'And Mr Holmes has an excellent reputation for thinking out of the box, or so they say and when I hit one brick wall after the other in the investigation and my superiors decided to drop the case... '

The sudden flurry of motion when Sherlock sat forward and fixed his gaze on the Kommissar made him stop mid-sentence. John glanced sideways at his friend and saw genuine surprise on his features. He had not known, then.

'Go on,' Sherlock encouraged the German inspector when the pause lingered that one moment too long. John heard the steel, he hoped the Kommissar did not.

'I worked on it in my free time, I was sure, no I am sure that James Nesbitt is still alive, we just overlooked the one vital clue. He must be somewhere, it's ...' he hesitated. 'It's a gut feeling, Mr Holmes - Mr Watson.'

'I see, and on this _gut feeling_ , as you call it, you ordered us to come here by forging official papers?' Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 'Interpol does not know a thing about this case! Am I right?'

'Yes,' Herbst admitted sheepishly and nervously took a sip from his lukewarm beer. He flinched when the stale liquid hit his taste buds.

'How exactly _did_ you hear about me?'

'I have a friend at Scotland Yard.'

'I see. And could that friend by any chance be DI Gavin Lestrade?'

Kommissar Herbst looked painfully confused and John, suppressing an irritated sigh, corrected Sherlock.

'It's _Greg_ \- Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, Mr Herbst.'

The Kommissar dropped his gaze again and nodded. Sherlock sat back and a smile played around his lips. John knew that he loved this, revelled in it. He loved this situation, loved going against the wishes of Herbst's superiors, this was just perfect! There was a certain joy underlying Sherlock's tone of voice when he continued.

'Kommissar Herbst, now that Dr Watson and I are here we might as well make the most of it. Tell us about the James Nesbitt case, right from the beginning, but do us all a favour and skip the boring bits.' He steepled his fingers beneath his chin when he ordered. 'In your own time, but quite quickly!'

John could not help but smile when Sherlock's usual brisk detective persona came to the fore, taking hostage of the situation, much to the bewilderment of the German inspector who had probably expected a pair of mild-mannered British gentlemen, and now realised that he had ended up with an eccentric genius in a dark great coat and his short doctor friend.

John folded his hands in his lap and settled back to listen to the very intriguing case unfolding in front of them. The case of a British business man in his thirties, going by the name of James Nesbitt, abducted here in Stuttgart six months ago and for all what it looked like he had vanished from the surface of the earth without leaving a trace. Herbst explained the connection with Mertens, whom he believed responsible, and how after weeks and months of fruitless investigations this case had been declared one of those unsolvable ones by his superiors and Nesbitt was believed dead - Case closed.

From the corner of his eyes he watched Sherlock fairly blossoming under the shower of intricate details of this case and for the first time in months, John himself felt excitement stir in his heart and a familiar feeling of warmth spread in the pit of his stomach.

Yes, they would work on this together, and more, from what Kommissar Herbst told them, Sherlock would be in need him, however insubstantial his own connection to this Mertens guy might prove to be.

oOo

 

'Where are you ... _Where_ are you?' Sherlock muttered under his breath when he rifled through the load of case notes on the large bed in the hotel room they were forced to share. Some cock-up with the booking, as John had grumpily hissed, some misunderstanding only, as the young man at the reception had been quick to assure them.

It did not matter, as it was not the first time they had to share a room while being on a case and they had long passed the stage of being embarrassed by anything other people might think of them. John knew for sure that Sherlock never had cared one ounce about other people's opinions, and John had learned not to be affected by other people's preconceptions.

Taking one piece of paper after the other, Sherlock's eyes flew over the densely written German text only to discard this particular shred of evidence for another one. From time to time he would impatiently click his tongue and glance at John who was sitting next to him, cross-legged, reading through the thick file of medical reports. They were in German as well, of course they were, but he still managed to find his way through the medical terms in the numerous reports on James Nesbitt's state of health attached to the files. Diabetes was the most striking ailment he suffered from, one that needed to be treated with self-injection of insulin. John frowned.

'Sherlock,' he leaned closer to his friend who looked up from yet another report. 'Nesbitt suffers from diabetes, he is insulin-dependent, that means he needs to inject it regularly. That might be something we could trace ...'

'Excellent, John. Very good idea.'

They looked at each other and Sherlock smiled, a real, a warm and delighted smile. And although John felt a bit like a good doggie having dutifully found and brought back the bone to its owner, he smiled back, but nodded only curtly before he turned his attention back to the medical reports.

Sherlock's gaze lingered on John a moment longer, taking in the tension in his shoulders and the obvious discomfort his friend still felt in his company. He was a tough nut, was John. Sherlock shook his head to clear his mind from those thoughts, no time, strictly no time for that now. There were here to find James Nesbitt, and find him they would. After all the case notes proved to be a goldmine of neglect and he had already discovered a few threads they could pick up, and one of them was particularly interesting.

'John, listen ...'

 

oOo

 

'Sherl...?' John sat up in the bed, disorientation and blackness surrounding him, making him anxious. 'Sherlock?'

The room was pitch black, the darkness impenetrable and frightening. He grew even more uncomfortable when the resemblance to some nights in Afghanistan, spent underneath a clouded sky, shrouding all natural light with no artificial light anywhere near, hit him. John groped around in the darkness, his movements clumsy and sleepy, his fingers moving along the sheets and then towards the side of the overly large bed, hitting a night table. Sliding along the smooth surface his fingers eventually hit the cord of a lamp and he moved his fingers along it until he found the switch. The sudden glaring brightness forced him to close his eyes, and when he opened them after a few seconds he found that he was alone and Sherlock gone.

Inexplicable panic flooded him, thoughts from God knows where spinning through his brain - _he left again, he's gone, you're alone here, you can't go back, why did he go?_ \- He slumped back onto the cushions, remembering relaxation techniques, trying to find a more regular breathing pattern, breathing his panic away, just as he had done in Afghanistan, just as he had done in those months after Sherlock's disappearance, just as he had done after he had returned. John closed his eyes, breathing in, breathing out and very slowly, very gradually he relaxed.

When he woke again, greyish daylight was seeping in through the curtains which were only half-closed now, lending the room a creepy, twilight quality. John blinked and wiped his hands over his face to help him focus. When he turned his head his gaze fell on the dark silhouette of someone sitting on the bed next to him.

'Jeez ...' John quickly moved away from the shadow, entangled in the sheets and almost falling out of the bed, but a warm hand, clamping around his arm, steadied him.

'It's me, John,' a low, velvety voice murmured. 'Don't be afraid. Everything is alright. I'm here, John. Go back to sleep.'

Strangely, those soothing words let the panic drain away from his chest as quickly as sand flowing through an hour glass. A low voice, so familiar, so comforting - family - and John drowsily nodded and sank back onto his pillows, slumber soon enveloping him again.

'I'm here, John,' Sherlock whispered once more, when he was sure that John was asleep, and continued his watch.

When he had come back from his recce at three in the morning, John had been asleep, but very restless, tossing and turning on his side of the large double bed. Sherlock had shed coat and jacket, slipped out of his shoes, and had sat down on the bed, close to John.

A few hours earlier Sherlock had been restless himself, having found a promising clue in Herbst's papers, one that he had wanted to investigate immediately. He was not entirely sure why he had not woken John, had left him here and gone out on his own. Surely he would have some explaining to do in the morning as to why he had done so and why in the middle of the _bloody_ night - _for fuck's sake_!

Sherlock's lips curled into a smile when he imagined the colourful curses which would certainly accompany John's anger, but he was equally sure he could convince John that it had been for purely professional reasons, and nothing to do with him wanting to work alone, nothing to do with the fact that he did not value their friendship or did not value John.

John was like a woman sometimes, emotionally greedy, in constant need of reassurance, of sentimental patting so to speak. Not that Sherlock had any firsthand experience of the female psyche in love, not his area after all, but theoretically he knew exactly what made women - and men - tick. Had read up on it for various cases, had used it to his advantage now and then, and friendship was nothing but a derivate of love, so the same patterns and methods applied.

Even if he never felt the urge to voice what moved him when he was around his friend, Sherlock knew precisely what John meant to him, knew that he did not want to lose him - again - but surely there was no need to say it? Surely John must know?

Sherlock leaned back against the wooden headrest of the bed and closed his eyes on the sentimental thoughts strafing his brain. Breathing in and out and becoming utterly still he tried to relax and to retreat into the one chamber of his mind palace where he knew he would find peace.

Clearly, it would not hurt to find a bit of rest before he had to face grumpy John, and more importantly before they both had to face Mertens.

 

**Annotations:**

_Kommissar_ -  Equivalent to a British Detective Inspector

_Bundeswehr_   - German army

_Stuttgart_   - City in southern Germany (about 600,000 citizens)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked that chapter ... I will be away on holidays for a bit, so the next chapter might take a moment longer to be posted :)   
> I'll see you all when I get back, my dears!  
>  JJ


	3. Glow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Well, it's not true.' Sherlock repeated more forcefully, interrupting John's thoughts. 'Even if I try to delete useless sentiment more often than not, I do feel, more than I want sometimes because it can hinder me, hold me back. But I am a human being and there I am and I care, maybe not as openly and passionately as you can, but I do. And ... I love.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The German the hotel owner speaks is a dialect, Swabian, spoken in a part of southern Germany, so even if you do speak standard German, you might not understand her! (Annotations at the end of the chapter)

So far John had not uttered a word - no _good morning_ , no _where the bloody hell have you been?_ \- Nothing, and it was hard for Sherlock to take this heavy silence when he was far too impatient and too eager to tell John what he had found out. But there was no leverage, no moment light enough to start telling him.

'A bissle meh Kaffee vielleicht no, dr Herr?'*

Sherlock frowned and looked up to meet the unexpected smile of the middle-aged hotel owner, a stout lady with kind, twinkling eyes and striking red hair, tied in a bun high on top of her head. She nodded, sending her dangling earrings into a jitterbug as if this would encourage an answer from this gentleman.

'Entschuldigung?' Sherlock managed to say, as he had no idea what the inquiry had been about. His eyes dropped to the pot of steaming coffee the woman held in her hands, and he decided that the question might very well have something to do with this black beverage, apart from that, though, he wasn't even sure that what he had heard had been German.

'Ah, sie send net von hier. Ned von Schduagard - I wolld nur wissa ob se no a bissle mehr Kaffee wellet?'**

She lifted the coffee pot and motioned towards it and Sherlock was as sure as he could be now that she was indeed referring to the delicious brew they were serving here in the hotel's breakfast room.

'Ja, bitte! Vielen Dank,' Sherlock made sure to replace the frown with a smile and was answered with a professional, but nonetheless warm smile in return, before she moved on to the next table, happily chatting away in that rather strange dialect of hers.

'What was that?' John asked between two mouthfuls of scrambled eggs and frankly awful tea.

'I'm quite sure she was asking if I would like to have some more coffee - yes, I am absolutely certain now,' Sherlock nodded, recalling the strange guttural sounds he had just heard. 'I have never been to the south of Germany, and this variety of German, the dialect spoken here, varies immensely from what I learned in school and on various trips to the north. It sounds rather strange, wild even, but from a linguist's standpoint it might indeed be interesting to ...'

'Well, yes ... I'm sure it would be,' John interrupted, a tad impatient. Now that he had broken his silence, he was not willing to converse about the various German dialects and their regional discrepancies. No, he was irritated by Sherlock's nightly disappearance, this aggravating habit of his to go off on his own, and he wanted some good answers.

'Sherlock,' he started and this immediately got his friend's attention who focused his gaze on him, and let dialects be dialects for the time being.

'You went off on your own, last night - again - Left me here in this foreign town, alone in the hotel room, and I would like to know why? For ...'

'... _fuck's sake, Sherlock_ ,' Sherlock finished the sentence.

'Oh, right, so you even know what I am going to say now, do you?'

'It's hardly ..'

' ... _a difficult deduction_ ,' John could not help but smile when he realised that they acted like an old married couple, knowing the other one so well that they could finish each other's sentences.

Sherlock, sensing a weakness and being more than willing to exploit it, ploughed on.

'I discovered some very interesting notes in the files. Herbst had found out that Nesbitt was a gambler, loved to play risky games - illegal ones - and apparently there was one that went horribly wrong, just months before his disappearance.'

'Right - okay,' John placed his fork on his plate and leaned back in his chair. Sherlock read this as permission to go on.

'Herbst thought it highly suspicious that Nesbitt was kidnapped and conveniently disappeared without a trace the moment it became public that he was burdened with debts up to his eyebrows, leaving his wife and little son in the lurch with all their debts. As this behaviour was judged highly uncharacteristic by those who knew him and stood in stark contrast to the character references Herbst had accumulated, he started digging. Just disappearing would have amounted to zero for Nesbitt and his family as in that case the debts would remain and his wife would have to pay instead. Of course, they would get nothing from his life insurances either. So he needed to disappear for real and seemingly for good. Hence the kidnapping and all the very obvious traces indicating he had been killed by his kidnappers. Now all he has to do is wait to be declared officially dead. And that usually happens after one year.'

Sherlock leaned back and raised his eyebrows suggestively. John cleared his throat and looked at his smug friend.

'Sherlock, I can see where this is going, I really do, but I don't know what this has got to do with you leaving me alone last night.'

'Oh, come on, John, don't be obtuse. Can't you concentrate on the case at hand? Why are you so, so ...?' Sherlock frowned, putting on an act of looking for the right expression, a move only serving to irritate John some more. 'So sentimental. You act like the proverbial _woman scorned_. Don't pretend this has never happened before, don't pretend me going off on my own has ever changed something between us. Don't pretend it is a big deal!'

'Don't prete..' John almost choked on the word. 'I am not _pretending_ , and I am definitely not acting like a woman scorned ...' John snorted indignantly. 'How would you know that particular feeling anyway, you never lived with a woman, never loved a woman ... nor a man come to think of it ... No! You, Sherlock, never loved anyone!'

'If that's what you want to believe, John, I can say nothing to change your mind.'

The retort had come quickly, Sherlock had spoken without missing a beat, but for a split second John had seen hurt and disbelief in his eyes and ashamed by his hurting bluntness John dropped his gaze to the table, examining the egg-yolk that had started to congeal on his plate.

'Will you come with me now, John?' Sherlock unexpectedly asked just when John thought this silence had become too poisonous to be penetrable anymore.

John looked up and nodded.

 

oOo

 

During the following hours they did not talk about this incident, just as they avoided mentioning anything that seemed to stand between them. Instead they were busy collecting data, maps and such and in the early afternoon they were to meet Herbst in the 'Cafe Planie'.

Their meeting place turned out to be a plush and over-decorated Cafe in the heart of the city, buzzing with young and old Stuttgarters, a veritable _deduction heaven_ for Sherlock who found immense pleasure in secretly dissected the wealthy looking elderly ladies, excitedly chatting away and wolfing down Sachertorte or Himbeerkuchen.

Disappointingly Herbst could not give them any more or any new information, but Sherlock was glad to fill him in about what he had made of the case notes. Herbst was only mildly impressed, he had obviously expected to be presented with the solution of the case by the great Sherlock Holmes, wrapped up nicely in a compact stack and tied with a huge bow, and John began to wonder what exactly Lestrade had told him about the brilliant genius Sherlock Holmes and his science of deduction.

Only after they had left Herbst did Sherlock tell John about some of his more valuable conclusions, those he had held back and not passed on to the German Kommissar, and what he had been up to last night - _I have been checking out some routes out of town, nothing more, nothing less, John_ \- and laid down his plans for the rest of the day and very likely this night.

Herbst had, albeit reluctantly, agreed to lend them his car, a battered Mercedes, and in the late afternoon Sherlock and John had crossed what seemed the whole length of the city and had cruised along the busy A-road out into the Rems-Murr Valley. Assuming the innocent air of tourists they had parked the car somewhere in the cobbled streets of a little village called Strümpfelbach and had walked through the village and into the vineyards, eventually hiding in a little hut perched on a slope of one them, waiting for the night.

'What are we doing here, Sherlock?' John asked, rubbing his hands together. With the weak autumn sun gone, the cold was growing fierce and insistent.

'See that building over there?'

Sherlock pointed to another small hut, very similar in structure to the one they were hiding in. It was maybe three hundred yards away, but further up and in a neighbouring vineyard. On closer inspection John saw that it was a fair bit larger, in fact it could easily pass as a little cottage, sturdily built and with proper windows.

'There's smoke coming out of the chimney,' John remarked.

'Excellent, John. Go on.'

'There's somebody in there, and not a worker as they have all gone home now.'

'Very good. Who is it then?'

John turned to Sherlock, 'Nesbitt - you think it's Nesbitt?'

'I know it is,' Sherlock said, smugly.

'But that's insane! We are what - one, two miles away from that little village, in a vineyard, yes, but in a densely populated area, there's always plenty of people around!'

'The best place to hide is in plain sight, John. Isn't that what they say? Nobody knows him here and by now people have very likely forgotten all about the case of this British business man. He changed his appearance a bit - and bingo, here he is, hiding in plain sight.'

'What about Mertens? What's his role in those illegal dealings?'

'Nesbitt hired him for the logistics of this crime, organising the kidnapping and his hiding places afterwards. He's the brain behind it, you could call him a consulting criminal, specialising in kidnappings and creating new identities. Your little, but very expensive helper to assist you whenever the wish to disappear for a while or for good arises. He takes care of all the details, Nesbitt's diabetes for example. In fact everything is taken care of. It's very neat indeed!'

John noticed that Sherlock had spoken with a certain amount of reverence, one he usually reserved for the _clever little shits_ among the criminals who managed to keep him entertained for a while.

'Right - Okay. What are we going to do now?'

'We will wait. Wait and see, John.'

'Bloody hell, Sherlock. It's freezing in here!'

'Yes,' Sherlock simply conceded and fell silent.

John glanced at him, but the talkative mood had gone and he had withdrawn into himself, waiting, waiting for the case to unfold. John sighed and leaned back against the cold stone wall, peering out of the window at the hut they were observing. He blinked because his vision grew blurry after a while and then wiggled a bit on the cold stone bench trying to find a comfortable position. Silently cursing John prepared for a long and freezing wait.

 

o

 

'It's not true, you know.'

John turned his head to where the words had come from. Darkness was surrounding them in the little hut. They had sat next to each other and not talked for what seemed like hours. He pondered on the meaning of those few words when Sherlock continued.

'You still see the young man you first met in the labs of St. Bart's, you still see him rattling off deductions, talking and dissecting, pushing sentiment and feelings to the back of his mind, don't you?'

'I ...' John started, but then he fell silent.

'You think I'm still the same person, solely focused on _The Work, The Brain, The Mind_ , and you're right to a certain extent. I am who I am, just as much as you are who you are, John.' Sherlock snorted mirthlessly. 'There's a saying that I could never delete as hard as I tried because I've heard it so often when you talked about me with Mrs Hudson, when Mycroft talked about me with Mother: The leopard cannot change its spots. True, isn't it? He's a proper genius, Sherlock Holmes. But by God, he is a bad man, cold and without feelings. He's always been and he always will be.'

John wanted to diasgree, when he remembered that in his anger he had hurled something along those lines at Sherlock not so long ago, so what could he say that would not sound like a cheap reply? And as Sherlock had never been one for soul-searching, his laying bare his inner thoughts hurt, hurt very much.

'Well, it's not true.' Sherlock repeated more forcefully, interrupting John's thoughts. 'Even if I try to delete useless sentiment more often than not, I do feel, more than I want sometimes because it can hinder me, hold me back. But I am a human being and there I am and I care, maybe not as openly and passionately as you can, but I do. And ... I love.'

John turned towards the voice which was low and tinged with sadness.

'From the moment we met in St. Bart's I knew that you would be an exception, that you would be special, as a friend, as the one person I deeply care about. I never told you, but there's a room in my mind palace where I store everything related to you and it's the only place I can find peace and calm. And of course I am human enough to realise that these feelings are indeed what people commonly call love. I do feel love for you...'

John closed his eyes and savoured this confession which seemed unreal, here, in the cold darkness.

'When you said, this morning, that I never loved I was hurt, more than I thought possible. How can you not know? How can you misjudge me so badly? You, my friend. But then I thought back to your love life and your friends. And thinking about that I came to the conclusion that _I_ might have misjudged _you_. So far I never doubted your judgements, I never doubted your expertise because obviously you, John, know so much more about all those things than me.'

Sherlock paused, and the faint noise of cars speeding on the A-road cutting through the valley below was the only sound to be heard.

'On a closer look, though, you are rather unfit to offer me advice on sentiment, relationships or love, John. You never sustained a meaningful relationship with a woman, you never married, you broke up with your girlfriends for frankly childish reasons, you always came back to me. And let's not forget that you could not tell them apart any more than I could. At least I was able to work out their names by the simple process of elimination whereas you simply forgot their names and what made them unique. You don't have a lot of friends as one would assume from somebody so sure of himself, one who always knows how to behave and most importantly how to sustain a friendship. So, my dear John, what does that make us?'

John gulped around the anger that had risen in his throat and had quickly chased away all sentimental feelings - _How dare he? How could he?_ \- John hung his head and exhaled, desperately racking his brains for a cutting, a fitting reply, but none would come, nothing seemed fitting - because somehow he could not pretend any longer to know better, could no longer fool himself to be better, no, let's be honest for once and face it, Sherlock was right.

'It's true, Sherlock.' John said softly. 'However much I would like to fight your deductions, because - _Jesus_ \- they hurt, they really do ... Seriously, there's nothing I want more than to be able to dispute your comments and prove you wrong, but I can't. You are spot-on.'

John sighed and it sounded almost exhausted, no more rightful anger left.

'I leave it to you to draw the right conclusions.'

The last words had been spoken with an air of defeat and now John was staring straight ahead and waited for Sherlock to continue.

'It's nothing that should anger you or me, because this is what we are and precisely what makes us friends, companions, partners, call it what you will. It ties us together.'

Sherlock's voice had grown more agitated and John realised that he must have given this problem way more thought than he would ever have credited him for. He felt a pang of shame and cleared his throat to chase it away.

'John, don't you see? You are important to me, you are the person I want to be with, now and in the future, you are the person I eventually want to retire with, go to Sussex or some other remote spot and live in a cosy little cottage or whatever those romantic notions of yours for your future comprise.'

John could hear the ironic raise of the eyebrows, could feel the mocking little smile in those words and it felt like home.

'Yes, Sherlock.' John murmured, tired of raising his voice and being angry. 'That's exactly what it makes us. We are partners, friends, companions ...' John could feel Sherlock next to him now, closer, could feel the rough fabric of his coat brushing against his hand. 'I think I will indeed retire to bloody Sussex with you, one day in the future, and be forever annoyed by your pungent experiments in our tiny kitchen, and constantly repelled by the larder full of desiccated specimens. _Bloody Hell_ \- I'd even put up with a beehive or two in the back garden if that would tickle your fancy as a retiree...' John chuckled, relishing the warm feeling that spread in his chest, counteracting the cold creeping into his bones from sitting on the icy stone bench for too long.

'Bees?' Sherlock said almost lovingly. 'What a splendid idea, John. You really do have your bright little moments.'

'Cheers, Sherlock,' John countered drily, noticing that the sadness had gone from Sherlock's voice and he had found back to his usual confident self.

 

oOo

 

'Wait! Wait for me, Sherlock!'

John called after the retreating form of his friend. But Sherlock had vanished between the vines and from his sight before the words had even left John's mouth.

'Damn it!'

John stopped dead, almost bending double and trying to catch some air, fully aware that he could not keep up with him. Sherlock was still very athletic and fast, whereas John was in a less than admirable form these days. A few pints less and a bit more exercise had to be the regime for the coming weeks, John swore.

John winced when he straightened his back again, his joints uncomfortably cracking and his vertebrae clicking into place.

'Jesus, I'm getting old,' he mumbled, and this insight did nothing to brighten his mood.

'Wait,' he hissed once again and stumbled after his friend.

And in this moment John realised, saw it clearly that this was indeed what he was made for: He was Sherlock Holmes' companion, partner and friend and he would follow him wherever this madman's fancy would take them.

And, for _fuck's sake,_ it felt right! 

 

 

**Annotations:**

* Would you like to have more coffee, sir?

** I see, you are not from around here, not from Stuttgart. I asked you if you'd like to have more coffee?

 _Sachertorte_ \- Similar to a fine chocolate cake

 _Himbeerkuchen_ \- A sponge cake, smothered in whipped cream and covered in raspberries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I hope this chapter makes up for it, at least a bit:)  
> Thank you for all your lovely feedback!  
> JJ


	4. Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please accept my apologies for the delay, but I have been away for a bit. And on top of making you wait it's only a shorter chapter ... but I hope you'll like reading it nonetheless :)

John was following Sherlock, running uphill, his lungs hurting, the cold air viciously stabbing like knives, and he was desperately trying to catch up with him. Sherlock was very far ahead, so far in fact that he could not even see him anymore.

Clouds covered the moon and stole the last bit of illumination, and the sudden darkness caused John to lose his footing and stumble over some roots, crashing painfully to the ground onto his knees - _Damnit! For fuck's sake, Sherlock, why can't you wait for me_ \- Cursing, John wiped his muddy hands on his trousers, checked his hurting left knee and quickly got up again, all the while trying to make out a glimpse of Sherlock ahead of him.

It was no use, he could not see him, he was too far ahead and the night was too black, and John decided to stay where he was, waiting for his eyes to adapt to the near blackness surrounding him. All his instincts had gone on red alert now, the atmosphere gradually shifting from adventurous to dangerous and he forced himself to wait, while his heart urged him on and begged him to go ahead and to find his friend. But John was still soldier enough to know that impulsive behaviour usually was the most dangerous of all and more often than not the wrong choice.

Breathing in and out in an attempt to calm down he clamped his hand over his mouth to avoid his heavy breathing being overheard. His head swivelled to his right and he instinctively crouched down again, when he heard something or somebody moving quite close and then surpassing him, moving stealthily through the vineyard with ease and knowledge. It had not been Sherlock, John simply knew that it had not been him, and with his heart racing and beating an angry tattoo against his ribcage, he cursed all his training and threw caution to the wind. John continued on his way through the vines, slowly following whatever had passed him a moment ago.

Struggling to avoid the gnarled vine roots sneaking from one line of vines to the other, John finally reached the top of the slope and there it was, the hut they had observed for hours, right in front of him. It looked strangely romantic in the darkness, its whitewashed walls clearly visible even in the near complete darkness. Suddenly a tiny movement caught his eye.

'Sherlock!' John hissed, but all he saw was a dark shadow moving towards the building. Right then the clouds broke and once more the moonlight illuminated the scene before him.

And then all sounds stopped as if on cue and for a moment it became eerily quiet before the night exploded.

 

oOo

 

Darkness greeted him when he opened his eyes, but his mind could not process the information which went against everything he knew and expected. He did not understand why there was aggravating, irritating darkness, accompanied by a stabbing pain, throbbing somewhere, everywhere, in his head, and with a frustrated and pained sigh he screwed his eyes shut again. He was greeted by an even more sinister and profound blackness, and fear filled him that he was ... dreaming, that he was not there, that he was ...

In panic he opened his eyes again, wide, and became aware of the darkness moving, a swirling and faint shadow at first, but then the greyness grew bolder and commenced breaking the blackness apart, lighter shades of grey appearing in one spot and then in another and more and always more and ever so slowly, the greyness took over and sent the black away. Another sigh escaped his mouth, a groan of frustration, and more blurry greyness appeared, morphing into a shape, a moving shape, a benign shape, yes, he was sure of that. He could feel the goodness, the kindness and calm emanating from it, could feel the familiarity of the grey with every fibre of his body.

_Are you all right?_

_Can you hear me?_

_Are you okay?_

The voice was muffled, as if coming from afar, but it was valiantly trying to pierce the ringing sound in his ears. A noise which he only became aware of now that another sound, one that he desperately wanted to perceive over the mayhem in his head, tried to make itself heard. This sound was like gentle waves lapping against his ears amidst a roaring thunderstorm, and clearly this was the only sound, the one voice he wanted to hear, the one voice he would consider staying for - How he wanted to show that voice what it meant for him! - He summoned all his strength and in an almost preternatural effort managed to nod.

The pain when he moved his head was like an explosion behind his eyeballs, a cacophony of pain and sound, completely drowning out the relief he had felt a split second before.

 

oOo

 

The blast wave smashed the front windows and pressed John to the ground. He must have passed out because when he came to, it was eerily quiet around him and all the debris and the fine dust had settled, painting the scene unfolding in front of him in an almost surreal and sickly white. John got up and without bothering to check if he was okay - he was able to walk, and there was no blood - he ran towards the building that was partially ruined, flames shooting out through the one burst wall and the broken window panes.

'Sherlock!' John shouted again and again, and he did not know how often he repeated that name, the one name that he would never be able to forget, and that nothing could erase from his mind. But he did not see him, and panic began to settle in his soul, refusing to budge or to lessen and grabbed his whole being with ice cold fingers.

'Sherlock!' he was almost at the building now and panic hit him anew when he realised that he had no way of knowing if he had gone inside - _If he has gone in there, he will be ... there's no way ... Please, dear God, let him live ..._ \- John approached the hut as carefully as he could and peered inside. All he saw was chaos, fire, all he felt was heat, and it was evident that it would be impossible to enter. He covered his mouth in an attempt not to inhale the fumes and continued his search, hoping to find him outside, praying, begging a god whom he had abandoned in Afghanistan a long, long time ago.

When John spotted a rather low stone wall maybe ten metres away from the house, seemingly unharmed by the explosion, his heart skipped a beat. He rushed over to it, ignoring the bricks he stumbled over, the glass shards cutting through his trousers and his skin not even remotely piercing his consciousness, and panting from the exertion and panic he leaned over the low wall and let out a sharp breath.

 

oOo

 

The blackness came back, but he struggled, he fought, as he absolutely wanted to hold onto the small strip of light that had painted the darkness mercifully grey. He fought and he clawed at it, snarling like an animal fighting a predator, refusing to give in. He felt warm hands moving over his body, felt softness on his face, in his hair and he wanted so much to help those hands, to assure them that he was still there, but he was so tired, so weak ...

'Sherlock,' John pressed out between clenched lips while he was frantically checking him over. There was blood on his face, several little cuts from the flying shards when the windows had burst from whatever had caused the bloody explosion. John was sure that his hearing must be affected, but there's no way he could diagnose any internal injuries. Sherlock was alive, yes, and his heart was beating quite strongly, but he was slipping in and out of consciousness. John fished the mobile out of his pocket and, praying for an operator capable of understanding English, he dialled 112, the emergency number.

The strong hands had left his body, but the notion that he was not alone permeated his mind. He could feel the kindness hovering next to him, could hear the soothing voice talking not too far away, and with the knowledge that he would not be alone anymore, he closed his eyes again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for comments, messages, kudos and bookmarks. All your lovely feedback makes writing so rewarding :)  
> Thank you! 
> 
> P.S.: Sorry for the cliffhanger, I try to update quickly :)


	5. Ashes

A flimsy, insubstantial calm settled over John once the emergency call had set everything in motion, but the belief that the two of them would make it out of this mess alright was beginning to grow in the back of his mind. Now that the motes of panic and fear stirred by the explosion and the search for Sherlock slowly began to settle, John took a moment to look around, to fully take in the surreal scene surrounding them.

The hut was partially destroyed, and the fire was still burning brightly and illuminated the night like a happy bonfire that it was not. John scoffed when pictures of a Guy Fawkes Night invaded his mind, a night that Sherlock had rescued him from the fire, a night that had brought them back together after Sherlock had returned unexpectedly, after three long and very lonely years. He had been rescued by his friend then, and John would make sure that Sherlock would be safe now.

John tore his gaze away from the debris, and scanning the darkness surrounding them the eery memory of the feeling when some _one_ or some _thing_ had passed him in the vineyard crawled over his skin like a spider, making him shiver involuntarily. His instincts told him that they were quite alone now, but his mind told him that somebody might still be in the burning hut, maybe incapable to move, trapped by the fire. John quickly got up and walked the few yards back to the burning building, ventured as near as he dared, but he could not make out much, and nothing stirred besides the dancing flames.

A low moan called him back to Sherlock, and he knelt down beside him. He registered that Sherlock had started shivering violently with the delayed shock and was passing in and out consciousness. With relief John became aware of the police sirens wailing in the distance, interspersed with the blaring horns of the ambulance and the fire brigade and he thought that he had to make himself known somehow. Glancing back at the hut, the fire still burning, he snorted. In the black of the night the burning hut in the vineyard on the hill must be like a beacon beckoning the helpers to come. John decided that there was no need to show them where they were and that it was Sherlock who required his attention, and so he shuffled as close to him as he could.

Glancing at this pale face, John's professional doctor facade crumbled, and he realised that it was indeed Sherlock, his friend, his best friend, his companion who was lying there, unconscious and hurt. A realisation which made John crave contact and all of a sudden there was nothing he wanted more in this whole wide world than cradling Sherlock's head in his lap and soothe him, coax him back into full consciousness - but his medical training still had a hold on his feelings and told him not to move Sherlock lest his back had been affected by the violent blast wave that had catapulted him backwards and over the low wall.

John wiped his hands over his face and sighed. He took a moment to watch Sherlock before he gently placed both palms on his face. Cupping his cheeks and creating a warm shelter for his pale features, John leaned down to him.

'You idiot, Sherlock! You bloody fucking idiot! What the hell? I know ... the thrill of the chase, eh?' he whispered. 'The blood pumping through your veins? That's what you are addicted to, isn't it?'

Whispering those words and remembering the moment they had first been spoken, caused a strange mixture of emotions to course through John. Annoyance mingling with pity, awe struggling with panic, but not one of those sentiments was strong enough and the fear of losing Sherlock was always taking centre stage. John continued to talk to him, as talking meant distraction, as talking meant connection, and he would be damned if he would just let him go. Sherlock's eyes were closed, his body limp, and the pale features garishly painted by the blood oozing from the cuts.

'Do you remember what you told me when you came back? Do you? Well, I do ... You said it was the two of us against the rest of the world. Do you remember that?'

John choked on the last word, and bit back some tears welling up in his eyes and threatening to spill over. No tears now, he wanted to be strong, strong enough for the two of them. John closed his eyes for a moment, but made sure not to cut the connection between them, his thumbs caressing the cold skin. John was overwhelmed by the situation, the fear manifesting itself in exhaustion and he let his forehead sink forward until it touched Sherlock's. When he opened his eyes again he was looking straight into his pale and piercing eyes.

'Sherl...' he whispered and without even thinking he kissed his lips. It was a small kiss, over before it had a chance to grow into more, more like a brother would kiss a brother, a father would kiss his son, a kiss entirely fuelled by elation, timid and almost chaste. Sherlock's eyes stayed open and his lips curled into a tiny smile.

'Yes, John ... Just the two of us.'

 

oOo

 

An indistinct murmur was cutting through the hitherto perfect silence, dragging his thought away from a delicious problem, one they had wrapped themselves around for the past thirty minutes - and this truly irritated him. What a very unpleasant way of biting through the cosy atmosphere his mind had been filled with - until a few seconds ago that was.

The murmuring grew louder, approaching, threatening to spill from the hall into his bedroom, and although he had been waiting for one particular person to arrive at some hour during the day, he felt he might not be quite ready for him yet. Momentarily the murmuring grew quieter again and became more and more indistinct as the voices moved away.

'John?' Sherlock called, trying to cut through to the murmur, willing it to stop and to listen.

'John?' Sherlock called again, louder and more commanding this time. 'Who is with you?'

Silence greeted this reasonable inquiry, and in front of his mind's eye he saw John, his lips pinched and exchanging a look with whoever he had been quietly conferring with. Clearly it was somebody John considered a nuisance for himself, judging by the angry undertone that had been noticeable, and for Sherlock, hence the hesitation before he answered - and that was all Sherlock needed to know. Well, now was as good or bad a moment as any, after all he had already been dragged back from his mind palace into the reality of his room.

'Mycroft! Brother, dear! Come and see me, will you?'

 

o

 

'You made a terrible mess over there in Germany.'

Mycroft's face took on the look of somebody having to divulge a particularly distasteful fact, and the slight lifting of the left eyebrow told Sherlock that it had taken a considerable amount of diplomatic talent and effort to sort out that particular mess. Sherlock just scoffed and continued to rifle through the folder Mycroft had handed over to him.

'What did the DNA tests say?'

'Nesbitt. No room for doubt here. The tests were clear. Now we have a grieving widow, gracefully receiving a huge amount of insurance money, thus relieving her from the terrible burden of the debts her husband left behind.'

Sherlock scoffed again. 'It's _not_ Nesbitt.'

'As I said, the tests were indisputable.' Mycroft intoned in his trademark bored drawl and rocked on his heels.

'Tests can be forged. Surely I don't have to remind you of _the woman_? No, I am certain that whoever it was the police found in the debris of the hut was not Nesbitt.'

Sherlock faced his brother now, a small smile playing around his lips. 'Just another intricate detail in his elaborate plan, I assume, and once again executed by his expensively hired and very loyal help, consulting criminal Johannes Mertens. Did the German police find any trace of the person John saw that night?'

'Not as far as we know. They made it clear that John must have been mistaken. The only traces the CSI found were yours and John's and Nesbitt's in the hut. Nothing else.'

'Case closed, I assume?'

'Indeed.' Mycroft motioned to the folder in Sherlock's hands. 'I did my very best to make the file as comprehensive as possible. I hope this is what you wanted?'

'It's exactly what I wanted.' Sherlock closed the folder. 'Thank you, Mycroft.'

This warm thank you, signifying an uncharacteristic show of affection between the brothers, caused a slightly more pronounced raise of the eyebrow.

'Excellent,' Mycroft said and a tiny, almost sincere smile, lightened up his serious features.

'I hope, you will be well soon, little brother. How long?' he vaguely waved his hand over the cast that covered Sherlock's right arm, from the right shoulder to the wrist, covering his hand and his fingers up to the first knuckle.

'About three weeks.' Sherlock wiggled the fingers of his right hand a bit. 'I bet John prays for a speedier recovery. Apparently I am the most impatient patient he ever came across.'

'Hellish, I imagine,' Mycroft conceded. 'Do you want me?' He motioned to the folder and Sherlock nodded. Putting the folder out of Sherlock's reach he said, 'Well, no more time to be idle for me, I'm wanted to discuss urgent matters in the office.' And with a short salute he was gone.

Sherlock leaned back against the headrest of his bed and closed his eyes. Even in peak condition he found conversing with his older brother ever so tiring. He exhaled, trying hard to suppress the ever present feeling of boredom. How utterly dull and inconvenient that this German adventure had left him incapacitated and weak. Another heartfelt sigh escaped him, and he arched his eyebrow - Maybe it was indeed a good idea to rest a bit before he would have to talk to John.

 

o

 

'John, could you pass me that folder over there?'

'That grey one?'

'Yes.'

John picked up the folder from the little upholstered chair opposite Sherlock's bed and handed it to him. For all while it was entirely silent while Sherlock fiddled with the ribbon which Mycroft in an attempt to retain some order must have tied around the folder again. It was in vain as his fingers were quite useless, with his right hand in a cast and his left somehow unable to manage alone. An impatient grunt escaped him.

'Could you, please ...?' and he shoved the folder towards John. With a short motion he beckoned John to sit down beside him, moving a bit to the left to make room.

'Sure,' John said and tried his very best to hide a small smile that was two parts smug and one part amused. Sherlock was not an easy patient to deal with and that he had to ask for help and had managed to do so in a civilised way for once, was refreshing indeed.

He sat down next to Sherlock on the bed causing the mattress to dip under their combined weight, causing them to touch. It felt quite comfortable and John only wiggled a tiny bit away. When he had finally untied the four knots and ripped open the folder, a stack of photographs tumbled out, some of them fluttering to the floor. With a grunt John leaned down and picked them up. Without so much as glancing at them he handed the stack over to Sherlock.

'No! - No, John. Have a look.'

John frowned and squinting a bit, he had left his reading glasses next to the boring novel in the living room, he looked at the first one. It was a black and white photo, and faded in places. Taking centre stage was a stone cottage, but catching one's eye was an elderly couple, smiling, standing in their front garden, exuding a pride that this shot captured perfectly. The next two or three were variations of the first. Then there were some colour photographs, the same cottage, but different people, the garden wilder and the cottage with a neglected air.

The last photo of the stack was clearly recent, taken a few weeks ago, as the date on it indicated. Again it showed the same cottage, the garden overgrown now, the building itself in astonishingly good condition. But it was clearly not inhabited and there was a distinct sense of abandonment surrounding it. At last as far as John could tell from this one photo.

'What do you think?' Sherlock asked.

'About what?'

An impatient click of the tongue, 'Do keep up, John. About the cottage, obviously. Will it do?'

John dipped his chin, hiding a slow smile creeping across his features. 'Yes, Sherlock. I think it'll do nicely.'

'My thoughts precisely. That's why I asked Mycroft to hand it over to me - to _us_. It's been in my family for centuries and it's part of my personal heritage. I thought you might like it - what with it being in Sussex ... ' Sherlock hesitated a second because, quite unexpectedly John did not react, but he ploughed on nonetheless. 'It needs a bit of repair here and there, but the structure is sound, no damp, thick stone walls, good heating. There's a large study, a comfortable kitchen and a very spacious back garden for the bees.'

'The bees?' John turned to him.

'Yes, John. I thought about your excellent suggestion and intend to keep one or two bee colonies. Apiology is an excellent science, I'm sure it will keep me occupied once we're retired.'

'I see,' was all John could say, followed by a rather quiet. 'This sounds wonderful.'

'I thought so, too,' Sherlock said softly, placing his warm hand over John's. It was a very intimate gesture and John smiled up at his friend.

'But that's talk of the future, John. Right now I need to get rid of that cast and then we'll resume our normal life. Clearly Lestrade's been quite helpless without us.'

'So no retirement yet?' John asked, his face brightening with a very warm smile.

And Sherlock turned to John, his hand not moving a bit. 'No John. No retirement just yet!'

 

  
***** The End *****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, my dears! I hope you liked it.  
> I am going to take a break from writing as I have been writing Johnlock fics almost nonstop for two years now and I am a bit tired to be honest. But I am fairly sure that once we have the new series my muse will strike again and there will be new fics!   
> Thank you all for your generous support, your help and your friendliness during the last years. You made this all worthwhile and a wonderful experience! :) 
> 
> Your JJ 
> 
> And last, but not least here comes the full prompt for this fic by oneofthoselunatics:
> 
> 'Sherlock accepts a boring case in Germany (city of your choosing) to try to get John to relax a little, but they run into some unexpected danger once there that put their lives at risk, but there must be a daring escape and a happy ending (romantic or bromantic, as you wish). Things I'd like to see: a big row at the beginning that pushes a worried Sherlock to make them go away for a while from Baker Street (he thinks John is tired of living with him), hidden signs of affection and care from both of them, a very risky situation for both of them that they have to escape from that shows that they'd do anything for the other, talks of retirement and some fluff at the end.' 
> 
> Dear oneofthoselunatics, I really hope I filled your prompt to your liking :)) Thank you so much for this commission!


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